


The Doubtful Comforts of a Special Dinner

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Rugby, Angst, Apology that goes offtrack, Arguing, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Capital A Angst, Established Relationship, Food, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Infidelity, John has just started coaching, John realizes he's been hard on Sherlock, Just talk already, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Marriage, Relationship Discussions, Rugby Coach John, Takes place at the end of chapter 5 of The Doubtful Comfort of Human Love, Too much is unsaid between them, Would it occur to these two idiots to talk to each other, ballet!lock, rugby player John, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8723290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: If you haven’t read The Doubtful Comforts of Human Love by Poppyalexander - what are you waiting for? Go read it NOW. This fic is a tribute to my favorite fanfic.But if you chose not to read it, this fic won’t make sense. The events of this fic would take place immediately following the end of Chapter 5 of The Doubtful Comforts of Human Love. John is hurting from his shoulder injury and the loss of his rugby playing career. He hasn’t handled the pain and long recovery well; he’s withdrawn and prickly and shutting Sherlock out. In this AU of Poppyalexander’s AU, John’s just started his new coaching job and starting to feel a little better about life. Sherlock has tried to be patient and supportive during John’s recovery but he’s reached the end of his rope. John has shut him out for so long, he’s running on empty. He’s withdrawn from John and  nearly done with it all and is finding his own comfort through CRUZR, a hookup app. They, and their marriage, are in a very bad place at the end of Chapter 5; that’s where this fic could have occurred.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Doubtful Comforts of Human Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184438) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



> Inspired by _The Doubtful Comforts of Human Love_ , from which I am borrowing this incarnation of Sherlock and John with permission of the author.

John had known he was being a jackass to Sherlock the past few months but just couldn’t seem to stop himself. The smothering isolation of being shut up in the flat while he recuperated from a devastating shoulder injury with just the twice weekly visits from the physiotherapist, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson for company had narrowed his world to two points of focus - the unremitting pain in his shoulder and his lost playing career. Neither of those were Sherlock’s fault but it was easy for John to take out his anguish and frustration on his husband: Sherlock, who had been surprisingly supportive throughout the surgeries, the hospital stay, and the tedious recovery. Sherlock, who he’d continually pushed away until finally Sherlock had even stopped trying to engage him.

During the past few weeks, the dawning realization that the man of his dreams was drifting away had started to feel like a physical ache to John, constantly there, under his consciousness just like the ache from his shoulder. It began to color every waking hour and many of his sleeping ones, too - the ones when he lay in bed alone, waiting for Sherlock to come back from wherever it was he’d gone off to alone.

Sherlock now spent very little time at the flat even when he wasn’t working. And John’s ache deepened when he thought about how he’d been the cause of Sherlock’s recent vacancy. If only John had not been so wrapped up in his own misery. If only...

That ache drove John to stop off at the Off-License for a good bottle of wine on his way home from work - wine several cuts above the usual middle shelf merlot he usually threw in the trolley while getting the shopping. If he could create a special surprise for Sherlock, maybe they could have a nice evening for a change. Perhaps they could relax and talk instead of sniping at each other, as most of their conversations devolved into recently.

Back at work for just a few weeks, John was finding his new position with the team as assistant coach to be part nanny and part drill sergeant to the players. The strategy sessions with the other coaches, watching films of their opponents’ recent matches and planning their own offense and defence strategies wore on for hours. But what really surprised him was just how much he enjoyed his new job. Being told he’d never play again had seemed like the end of his dreams. But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved.

John was grateful when a clerk approached him while he browsed the Reds and Blended Reds aisle. He explained that he was looking for a special bottle, but not too outrageous, to pair with salmon. When the clerk suggested an £80 Pinot Noir, John winced at the extravagance - especially in light of his recent months of only drawing half salary - but he braced himself and dug out his debit card. Sherlock was the one who knew wines, not him, but the clerk assured him that the wine would please even the most discriminating palate.

Next stop was the supermarket for Sherlock’s staples: salad and salmon. First John looked over the tortes and petit fours in the bakery case but turned away when he realized that Sherlock would eat a slice of cake or a petit four with relish but work himself extra hard the next day to counteract the extra calories. John already knew how hard his husband worked to stay in top shape; he didn’t want to tempt him with anything that would add more hours to his workout. The fish counter was a safer bet. John took his time picking out two thick, fresh salmon cuts, even though he knew Sherlock would only eat two-thirds of his portion but John could always take the leftover for lunch tomorrow. On to the produce section, John picked out Sherlock’s favorite greens. At the last minute he added a bunch of carrot, a turnip and two beets. He could grate them finely into a colorful slaw, served with dressing on the side, of course. Sherlock would be pleased with both the visual appeal and the medley of flavors. He might even remark on John’s originality in coming up with the veg slaw without a recipe. God only knew it had been quite a while since Sherlock had noticed any of the small things John was now making an effort to do for him.

John hummed quietly as he headed home with his purchases. He gave less than half of his attention to the other people passing on the pavement. Instead he daydreamed about what he hoped would come after dinner - Sherlock’s sensuous mouth on his, Sherlock’s muscular, lean body writhing under his ministrations, Sherlock’s face red and desperate. By the time John turned his key in 221B Baker Street, his heartbeat thrummed in excited anticipation.

He heard the shower running as he dropped the bags on the worktop, later than he’d planned to arrive home; he hoped that Sherlock hadn’t already grabbed a bite from the leftovers in the fridge. Hurriedly unpacking the supplies, he popped the salmon into the oven then opened the wine to breathe. The sound of the shower stopped as he rinsed the salad greens. John could picture Sherlock wiping the mirror with his damp towel then leaning over the sink to shave, naked, warmed by the steam still trapped in the bathroom. John realized with a shock that it had been a very, very long time since he had indulged in any daydreams about his handsome husband.

He’d just finished preparing the veg slaw when he heard Sherlock go from the bathroom into the bedroom. John thought about calling out to him to not bother dressing in anything except pyjamas but the oven timer buzzed and John busied himself with finishing preparing the meal.

Just as John set the last of the cutlery on the table, Sherlock emerged from the hall focused on the phone in his hand, thumbs flying over the small keyboard. Sherlock’s hair was carefully styled and gleaming with product. He wore his black shirt, John’s favorite, and snug-fitted suit in a gray so dark, it could have been mistaken for black if not for the contrast with the shirt. Sherlock stopped in his tracks when he saw the carefully-laid table. John watched his husband’s eyes flick to the food on the worktop to the baking pan on the stove. A line appeared between his brows as Sherlock and fiddled with his cuff button.

An uneasy feeling tightened John’s chest at the sight. _Surely Sherlock didn’t already have plans for dinner?_ Soldiering through, as he always did, John forced a smile. “I made dinner. I even came up with a new veg slaw.”

Sherlock had hoped to slip out of the flat before John arrived home from his new job. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument and lately, any time he tried to initiate conversation with his husband, John took it as an invitation to nag and pick and start a row. He’d been distracted by a new _CRUZR_ message arranging his evening plans with _BigDan68_ , so much so that he hadn’t heard John moving around in the kitchen. It was rather sweet that John had thought of him, trying to make veg interesting for a change. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth flicked up.

For a moment, John thought that Sherlock might actually smile. A real smile, a smile full of warmth, like he used to reserve for John. It had been weeks since John had seen that smile and he realized how much he missed it. Then the ghost-of-a-smile was gone.

Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced down at the table. “I’m going out. For work.”

John didn’t ask for details. No matter how late Sherlock left the house our how late he returned, John made it a point to never ask where he’d been. They both kept odd hours - their professions often necessitated comings and goings outside of normal business hours. Sherlock never asked him when John had to leave on a moment’s notice and he gave Sherlock the same courtesy. They _trusted_ each other. To John, that’s why their marriage worked; mutual respect and trust. And if John sometimes had to stifle a frisson of doubt - well, it was his own imagination running wild, wasn’t it? His petty jealousy wasn’t Sherlock’s concern. It was John’s own to deal with. His price to pay for having a gorgeous, talented husband.

And the flicker of irritation that flared at the thought of the money he’d spent and the time he’d invested? John tried to stifle that, too.

Instead, he merely licked his lips and said lightly, “I thought we could eat together tonight.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch. “I suppose I could…”

John pulled out Sherlock’s chair, quickly cutting off Sherlock’s speech. “Dinner’s all ready. Pour the wine while I get it.”

Sherlock picked up the wine and squinted at the label. “Kosta Browne, 2012. I’ve read that this is a good year.” His tone that showed he was actually impressed. He placed his phone on the table, carefully angled so that John couldn’t see the screen. A chime sounded and Sherlock glanced down: _New CRUZR msg from BigDan68 - You ready yet, gorgeous?_

John plated their meals and watched while Sherlock swished his wine then sipped. His eyelashes fanned on his pale cheeks as he closed his eyes to savor the first taste. A smile stretched Sherlock’s lips. “This is excellent,” he murmured, opening his eyes. “What’s the occasion? Did I forget our anniversary again?”

John felt the tips of his ears warm from Sherlock’s praise. Then Sherlock’s text alert _chimed_ again.

Taking a bite to give himself time, John watched Sherlock carefully as he took a tiny bite of fish and another sip of wine. Finally swallowing, John took a drink of the really excellent wine before speaking. “No occasion. Can’t I cook a nice dinner for my husband? To thank you for taking care of me. When I was, you know. Hurt.”

Sherlock’s smile answered. “And the wine?”

_chime_

“My treat. I used to spoil you, remember? Even if it meant skipping lunch for a week, I’d buy you little treats.” John smiled fondly at the memory of how thrilled Sherlock had been at the smallest treat when they were just starting out - a jar of really good raspberry jam, a single daisy, a few sheets of fine writing paper. It used to take so little to make Sherlock happy.

The creases John loved appeared at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “You did, didn’t you?” He took another bite - a bigger one this time.

_chime_

They ate in silence for a little while but all too soon, Sherlock began to fidget. He’d finished less than a third of his fish and hadn’t touched his slaw when he started glancing at his watch, then his phone. Its text alert had continued to chime while they ate. John couldn’t see the sender from across the table and it irritated him further that Sherlock didn’t mention who it was.

Sherlock had tried to focus on the meal. It seemed like John was actually trying to be pleasant tonight, for the first time since God only knew when. But _BigDan68_ continued to text, and Sherlock had no intention of cancelling their plans. He’d eat, share a glass of wine with John, and hopefully be less than half an hour late. _BigDan68_ seemed agreeable to waiting.

_chime_

Each time Sherlock’s phone gave a soft _chime_ , John’s nerves stretched a little thinner. Whoever was texting just wouldn’t let up. John’s hands itched to snatch the phone from where it lay beside Sherlock's plate and chuck it in the bin. He tried to stifle his irritation but when Sherlock’s fidgeting reached fever pitch, he could no longer hide his ire.

“Don’t let me keep you,” John sneered, “From something so _obviously_ important.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told you, I’m going out.” He’d had enough. He’d tried to be pleasant, to compliment John on his wine selection, to eat the meal John’d made. But of course, sitting at the table with John had just opened him up once again to John’s ire. He picked up the mobile and began to text without any pretense of deference to John. In less than a minute he’d set a new time to meet _BigDan68_ while John ate in silence, face stony.

“Could you _please_ put that _down_ ,” John asked in mock politeness, nodding toward Sherlock’s mobile.

“I told you, I have plans.” Sherlock’s tone showed that he’d retreated into himself again. He spoke into his mobile, face also stony.

_chime_

John’s anger boiled over. “I _tried_ to do something nice for you! I cooked _your_ favorites. And the _wine_! Christ, Sherlock, I spent half our grocery budget on that wine!”

Sherlock looked up cooly. “Perhaps if you’d given me advance notice, I could have rearranged my schedule.”

_chime_

The more remotely calm Sherlock remained, the angrier John became. “It’s called a _surprise_ , Sherlock! If I’d given you notice, it wouldn’t have been a _surprise_!” A red flush crept up his neck from his collar.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and calmly took another bite of salad.

_chime_

He stood, slipped his mobile into his jacket pocket and calmly pushed in his chair. Someone was waiting who wouldn’t snipe, rave, and sneer and Sherlock couldn’t get out fast enough.

_chime_

Suddenly tired of the mountain of never-said things built up between them, John spoke without forethought. “Do you want a divorce?”

Sherlock paused on his way out of the kitchen. He spun to face John. His mouth dropped open, caught off guard by John’s question. He held both hands in front of his chest as if he were fending off a blow and stepped back, away from the ugly question.

 _Divorce_. The word lay between them, a nearly-physical presence on the table, spreading out and smothering the dishes with its gray-green-purple repulsiveness. Once spoken, it couldn’t be un-spoken. Once heard, it lived on and on. And now there it was, vibrating in the air of their flat, tainting everything in their home with its miasma.

John felt ill that he’d been the one to speak it. He’d birthed it and left it writhing between them, premature and partially formed, hideous and vile.

_chime_

_Divorce_. It seemed to echo through the small kitchen, to the living room, and down the tiny hall to pollute their bedroom. Could anything in their home be saved from it’s horrid infection?

Sherlock recoiled as if John had struck him. “What makes you think…”

“Just ... stop. Stop the bullshit.” John pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. “I’m fucking tired, Sherlock. Tired of waiting for you to come home.”

 _Of course John would make it all about himself_ , Sherlock thought. _He’s tired! What about the bone weary days of taking care of John's every need? What about weeks of teaching extra classes to cover the shortfall in John’s paycheck?_ Sherlock leaned over the table, eyes blazing as he spoke.

“No,” he over-enunciated coldly. “I don’t want to get divorced. I just have an appointment tonight.”

_chime_

John dropped his hand away from his face. He held Sherlock’s gaze and shook his head slowly, frowning.

“Of course you have an appointment. You _always_ do,” John growled.

“Perhaps I’d have planned to stay in if the atmosphere were more pleasant.”

_chime_

“I. Am. Trying. To have a nice evening. I made dinner for you. I bought wine. For you.”

Sherlock’s calm shattered and he shouted, uncaring of if the neighbors could hear. “Could it have occurred to _you_ to ask me if I _wanted_ dinner? No! _John Watson_ wants to have dinner so _John Watson_ makes dinner. Without asking anyone else what they want!”

“You _never_ appreciate anything I do for you!” John shouted back. _Chime_ “And _turn off that fucking phone_! Jesus Fucking Christ, what is so important it can’t bloody _wait_!”

“ _You_ never asked me to turn it off!”

_chime_

“Why should _I_ have to tell _you_ the simplest things? It’s just good manners!” John’s voice rose to a mocking tone. “Sherlock, turn off your phone at the table. Sherlock, hang up your bath towels. Sherlock, close the cabinet doors. Sherlock…”

Sherlock cut John off roughly. “I am going out!”

He started toward the door but John’s voice, so soft he could have missed it, stopped him abruptly.

“I guess I have my answer,” John whispered sadly.

The fight went out of Sherlock. His shoulders sagged as he turned toward his husband and spoke, softer now. “John. How can you think I don’t want this.” Sherlock gestured between the two of them.

Even in John’s anger, he noticed the elegance of Sherlock’s hand, the grace of his movements.

“Actually I’m having a hard time believing that you _do_ want it.” John heard the weariness in his own voice. Anger gone, he could now feel his heart cracking apart behind his sternum at his own words: Divorce - he’d said it out loud. But, he thought, Sherlock was the one who stiffened when John as little as tried to kiss him goodbye these days. Sherlock was the one who treated John more like a flatmate than a beloved spouse.

“I do. Want this,” Sherlock reiterated, more forceful this time.

_chime_

John pressed his lips together and looked at the ceiling for a moment before he spoke. “You don’t act like it.”

“You’re too self absorbed to even notice how I act,” Sherlock replied.

 _How had everything gone so far off course?_ John had planned a special meal to try to make up to Sherlock for his prickly behavior since his injury. John knew he owed Sherlock thanks for supporting him during his recovery. But somehow John was the one who ended up furious, and hurt, and had struck out blindly at Sherlock with the one word that would wound him most deeply. And Sherlock, always one to protect his pride, had retaliated with anger.

_Why couldn’t they have a simple fucking dinner without it all going south?_

_(Was it even worth trying any more?)_

And the part that hurt the most was that John knew Sherlock was right. John had been self-absorbed since his injury, wallowing in self pity, nursing his anguish and not even trying to make things better between them. He’d used the pain _(Oh God, it hurt so much)_ like a physical barrier between them, he’d closed himself off even as Sherlock did his utmost to be strong, to be the one John could lean on when he was down. Instead of leaning in, John had leaned away. And now, here they were, separated by the kitchen table, separated by the word _divorce_ , separated by the yawning chasm of out-of-synch months.

_chime_

Sherlock watched several emotions play over John’s features, one after another. And when John’s face settled into lines of weary resignation, fear flickered painfully through Sherlock’s gut. _Divorce_. _John had actually brought up divorce._ He moved around the table, which suddenly seemed a physical metaphor for all the things that had separated them the past few months.

And John closed his eyes and shook his head again. Suddenly one dinner, one expensive bottle of wine, seemed a small gesture. Insignificant. There wasn’t anything he could reply - Sherlock was right. He heard Sherlock move and opened his eyes to watch Sherlock drop to his knees in front of him. _Always the one for drama_. The sprang unbidden in John’s mind, fanning his irritation again.

Sherlock’s expression softened as he took John’s hand between both of his and squeezed. “What can I do to show you, I do want this?” He gestured between them again.

John wasn’t able to stop his mouth from twisting. “I didn’t used to have to tell you. You used to know. You used to make the _effort_ to know.”

“I’ll stay home.” There was a hint of desperation in Sherlock’s voice. “I’ll do the washing up. You can relax. Watch telly.”

There was a time when John would have thrilled to hear Sherlock’s offer to do chores but now it just made him even more cross. Sherlock was just throwing out trifles to try to salvage his comfortable, settled life after John had spoken the one word that couldn’t be taken back.

_chime_

“ _That’s_ what you offer up. You’ll wash the dishes,” John muttered.

“I’ll do more. Please, John. Don’t.” A half-choked sound interrupted Sherlock’s words. “ _I love you_.”

With a sigh, John withdrew his hand and stood. He looked down at Sherlock, still on his knees on the lino. This man who had held his heart since they were teens, with whom he’d built a life and a home, this proud, arrogant man was willing to plead on his knees for their marriage. John winced, knowing how much it must hurt Sherlock’s bad knee to kneel on the hard floor.

_chime_

But loving him didn’t erase the daily tension between them. It didn’t excuse the distaste that Sherlock displayed when John did make an effort to be affectionate. John bit his lip, irritated at his own conflicted feelings. In the end, John knew without doubt that he could never follow through on his threat. Even if their feelings were waning, even if the flame was guttering - John would hold out until the last gasp, and he’d be there to lock the door behind them if Sherlock ever walked away.

Sherlock’s grip on John’s thighs tightened more the longer John stared at him without making a reply. No matter how tense things were, he didn’t really want it to end. He just wanted John to be _John_ again. Not the angry man who sniped at the smallest provocation, not the man so wrapped in his own misery that he didn’t even notice that Sherlock was lonely, too. He felt a tear spill over and slip down his cheek and was mortified that John would see his desperation.

John couldn’t bear to see his confident husband so discomposed. _Had the words that popped from his mouth without forethought revealed what he really felt?_ With a swallow, John replied.

“I don’t want to end it, Sherlock.”

Gently prying Sherlock’s hands from around his legs, John murmured, “Come on. Up you go.” Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, John buried his face in the black shirtfront. “I do love you, too.”

For so long, Sherlock had avoided even the most casual touch. He’d avoided John’s whiskey-foul kisses. He’d avoided their big bed, coming in late and either staying up through the night making notes for his latest choreography or falling asleep on the sofa with his mobile on his chest. And sex, when they bothered at all, was just a hurried _kiss-grope-fondle-jerk off_ that he gritted his teeth to get through. Sherlock stiffened at John’s embrace, but when John held on and relaxed, Sherlock lifted his hands and placed them on John’s lower back.

John hadn’t realized how starved he’d been for Sherlock’s warmth, his solid body under his hands. It felt good to feel Sherlock’s breath against his temple. He took a few deep breaths then stepped back, wiping at his eyes with the backs of both hands.

“Ok, then. That’s … settled.” John glanced up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He attempted a chuckle but it came out thick and wet. “I didn’t mean to keep you.” He took another step away. “I’ll clean up. You have plans.”

Sherlock pressed the POWER button to turn off his phone. 

“It’s nothing. I’ll stay home tonight.”


End file.
